


I See Fire

by ryukoishida



Category: Arslan Senki | Heroic Legend of Arslan
Genre: Arslan Senki Fandom Week, M/M, divergent canon, erotic dancer!Gieve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 22:36:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7863880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryukoishida/pseuds/ryukoishida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isfan doesn’t handle alcohol well. Actually, he doesn’t know how to handle a certain silver-tongued dancer, who also happens to be the Parsian troops’ trusted informant, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I See Fire

**Author's Note:**

> A result from a thing andthenabanana and I were talking about when we saw this sinful image of Gieve. I regret nothing, except for the shitty nsfw scene; for that I am very sorry.

“Can you not find someone else who’s more suitable for this task, Lord Kishward?” His tone remains respectfully polite, but the slight dip of displeasure in his brows does not escape the older man’s observation. His gaze lowers to the ground, his lips pursed.

 

Kishward can command him to lead an army on a battlefield; he can ask him to infiltrate enemy’s camp; he can even tell him to go on a suicide mission if it means the difference between defeat and victory for his country; but to be assigned to deal with that one particular troublesome informant at Gilan is a much more unpleasant business for Isfan, whose one weakness is having difficulty socializing with overly-flamboyant yet charming dancers with alluring turquoise eyes and a pretty mouth that can sprout even prettier poetry with a drink wrapped within his delicate fingers.

 

Not that he has anyone specific in mind.

 

“It’s unlike you to discard your responsibility, Isfan,” the man casts a curious glance towards the young knight, and proceeds with more care. “Are there any concerns you’d like to discuss with me?”

 

“No, it’s nothing,” Isfan says curtly, his shoulders squaring back. “Please take no heed to what I’ve said. I shall take on the assignment as you command.”

 

Kishward nods approvingly, a hand clasped on the knight’s shoulder for a second before letting him go.

 

Isfan understands the significance of his mission – perhaps Narsus has heard rumours from his vast network of informants scattered across Pars and the tactician wants to ensure the truth of those reports before he drafts up his plans – or the Eran wouldn’t have sent a senior officer for the job. Despite this knowledge, he can’t help but feel a dreadful and heavy unease as he makes preparations to leave for the southern port of Gilan the next day.

 

-

 

By the time he arrives Gilan three days later and leaves his belongings at an inn, it’s already dusk. The markets and stalls along the water are closing for the day as he strolls with determined steps, the dark green of his linen tunic in a sea of vibrant colours and the intimidating sharpness of his gaze silently dictates the crowd around him to part as Isfan walks deeper into the the center of town in search of his destination.

 

He ignores the middle-aged men’s half-drunken orotund shouts and laughter on the pavement of the busy street and pulls away from perfumed hands decorated with silver and glass gems that attempt to drag him into one of the numerous taverns and brothels that line the district.

 

Soon, the clamor of the evening crowd fades away to another world as Isfan turns a corner and takes a back alley. The knight hasn’t detected anyone suspicious on his way here, but he doesn’t like taking chances, so it’s only after he spends another ten minutes wandering in a seemingly aimless path does he finally stop in front of an inconspicuous-looking two-storey building constructed of bricks that used to be bright maroon like the rest of its neighbourhood but have now faded like old parchment, the colours seeping out and withering into reddish-grey.

 

There is no signage or any other indication to show that this building is any sort of store or business, but with a careful, steady hand, Isfan knocks on the old oak door twice.

 

He doesn’t have to wait long when the door creaks open to a mere slit, and a sliver of a blue-eyed woman and pouty full lips who can’t be more than a few years older than him appears; a pleasant perfume – mixture of citrus and summer flowers – drifts from the interior through the small crack of the door. Guarded gaze glares back up at him in defiant silence; It doesn’t look like the woman will be opening that door any wider.

 

“I’m here to see Gieve,” Isfan tells her in a clipped tone, giving nothing away.

 

The woman’s reply is even quicker, “There’s no one here who goes by that name.”

 

The door creaks again, but Isfan’s hand snatches out to catch it before the woman can shut it in his face. With his other hand, he pulls out something from a little pouch tied to his waist – a rectangular-shaped trinket with an image of a lion meticulously carved on one side and two dainty ruby studs embedded into the clay as its eyes.

 

The knight shows it to her and though he can tell, from the sudden shift of expression on her face, that she’s been convinced, Isfan repeats his request anyway, “Take me to Gieve.”

 

“Well why didn’t you say so before, sir? Come in, come in.”

 

Before Isfan can react, the woman, now all bright smiles and gleaming eyes, already has her manicured fingers clasped onto his lower arm in a vice grip and pulling him in.

 

The interior is darker than twilight hours. Semi-transparent ribbons of cloth in purples and reds are draped tastefully along the low arches of the ceiling, and they drift like gentle waves of a calm ocean on a summer’s day when a breath of wind blows in from the windows. Soft music from stringed instruments drifts from one of the rooms behind closed doors, where the more private performances and other affairs take place.

 

Out here in the spacious parlour, the corners are lighted up by a few candles that cast a warm, orange glow, and the perfume that he’d detected from the entrance is even more poignant, forcing its way into his nostrils and down his throat; it makes Isfan’s mind grow drowsy and his limbs heavy, and he clutches the hilt of his sword strapped to his hip in an attempt to remain lucid and alert, the slightly worn-out leather a constant comfort during stressful and unknown situations.  

 

“I’ll have to ask you to hand over your weapon while you’re in the venue, good sir.”

 

Now that Isfan can see her properly in the low light, he notices the subtle strength and agility in her frame, the way she carries herself tall and straight; it’s a power well-hidden by the silky cascade of wavy, black locks that flow sensually across her bareback, and the elegant and expensive dress that she dons. In a physical fight, she absolutely will not stand a chance, but there are tricks and secrets in those brilliant azure eyes and Isfan has a feeling that he wouldn’t want to get on her bad side. “We don’t want any unnecessary bloodshed when everyone’s here to have a good time, right?”

 

Isfan wordlessly hands his sword to her, and she places it into a cabinet behind the counter.

 

She leads him further in and away from the men and women reclining on the plump, soft floor cushions; the patrons are mostly drinking, smoking, and chattering in low murmurs, and Isfan even spots a few couples kissing with much fervency, hands groping greedily under layers of clothing as if they are in their own little world. He silently thanks the gods for the music loud enough to cover up any embarrassing noises, and Isfan quickly snaps his head to face forward until they reach the room at the end of the hallway.

 

In a smaller chamber that’s no less ornate than the parlour and equipped with a pile of lush cushions and blankets in one corner, a low table for foods and drinks with a clean ash-tin for pipe-smokers, and a spacious area covered by a lavish rug, the light is even dimmer, and Isfan can hardly see his surroundings, but he supposes when people come to these sort of places, they are not here to see but to participate in the acts themselves.

 

He eyes the cushions warily before folding himself into a stiff sitting position by the table. The woman leaves him then, but only for a few minutes before she comes back with a beverage in hand and an easy smile on her face.

 

“Gieve is currently entertaining some guests, but he’ll be with you shortly,” the woman tells him, and she carefully places a glass of ruby-red liquid on the table. “Here, sir, a drink on the house while you wait.”

 

Isfan nods his thanks, and after the woman gives him another gracious bow, she steps out of the chamber once more, leaving the knight to his own thoughts.

 

He stares at the rich velvet red in the frosted glass, the intoxicating fruity scent of it is enough to send him half-way to a pleasant haze.

 

He knows better than to partake in a place like this, especially when he doesn’t have much tolerance for alcohol, but his fingers won’t stop drumming against the surface of the table in obvious agitation. Isfan hates that he can pinpoint the exact cause of his tension and that he can’t do anything about it.

 

It has been about a year and a half since they last met, and Isfan dislikes recalling what had happened then – refuses to acknowledge the things they’ve done and the implications of them, the hidden connotations behind seemingly hollow words and a sharp, knowing smile. The images and sounds are all too clear, still, in his mind sometimes in the deepest hours of the night when tendrils of desire and half-dreams ensnare his consciousness, reminding him of teasing kisses and lingering touches against hot, taut skin.

 

His grip on the glass tightens at the thought, and he wills himself to think about the matter at hand. Gieve is a trustworthy informant – that, even the Shah himself is sure of – but in order to get him to cooperate, it takes a certain amount of “persuasion” to get the most highly praised dancer in all of Gilan to open his mouth.

 

Money is of little temptation to the feisty dancer, as Isfan found out the first time he had to deal with Gieve, but there are always alternative rewards he’s happy to accept in exchange for the valuable information he collects from the patrons who come from all corners of the world. Isfan isn’t sure if he’s willing to pay the same peculiar “price” as he did last time he was here. 

 

“A thousand apologies for keeping you waiting, Lord Isfan.”

 

The dainty jangling of his bangles announces the dancer’s arrival, before an enticing scent of exotic spices and flora follows soon after. Isfan feels his back straighten, all too aware of the presence of a man who may look as delicate as a doll but as deadly as a viper if he bares his fangs in retaliation. His right hand that’s about to reach for his sword comes up empty, so he places them on the table instead.

 

The dancer walks around to the other side of the table, his feet bare and pale, and his ankles adorned with thin silver chains that dangle and glimmer with every silent step he takes.

 

“Gieve,” Isfan greets him with a single, stiff nod, tone neutral and his gaze remaining on the table.

 

“Still as cold and inapproachable as always, I see.”

 

A light chuckle passes through his lips, saccharine and teasing; his intention to rile up the knight is as clear as a single candlelight in the dark. “Perhaps that’s why I cannot seem to get enough of you.”

 

Something hot and unreasonable akin to irritation – or maybe another emotion that he’s just unwilling to acknowledge - arises within Isfan as his fingers gather into a fist and his mouth purses into a firm line.

 

“It’s best that we get down to business right away; I do not have time for your flowery rhetoric.”

 

As Isfan’s eyes draw up gradually along the other man’s lithe frame, Isfan notices the pristine white of his trousers, the cuffs just cutting off a bit above his ankle and the form cleverly complimenting the shape and lines of his legs without being overtly so. The soft gauzy fabric tinted in dark violet of his sleeveless tunic has a deep, open collar that reveals a generous sliver of the man’s creamy skin all the way down to his navel, where the shirt is tied loosely together around the waist with a long, white sash that hangs low on his hips.

 

“The night is still young,” he reminds Isfan, voice entirely too pleasant as he folds himself into a lax sitting position on the opposite side of the knight. His hand – without any hesitation – reaches out for Isfan’s still tightly held in a fist, and the silver bangles on his wrist jangle with the gentle movement. The warmth of his skin eats and destroys whatever Isfan is about to say, and he lets it engulf him. “What’s the hurry?”

 

His frown is more obvious now, and Isfan tells himself he’s more annoyed than bemused by the dancer’s overly friendly touch; he finally lifts his head and lets his gaze roam cautiously past that slender neck, the one ear embellished with small shards of emerald dangling on a single silver chain, and wine-red hair decorated by a circlet of delicate turquoise jewels that almost match the brilliance of his eyes.

 

When their gazes finally meet, Gieve responds with a twitch of his lips, a lopsided grin sweet and almost boyish, but underneath that charm, Isfan senses a knife’s edge, sharp and untouchable.

 

It’s almost enchanting – the way he moves, the gestures he makes. Poetry in motion.

 

Gieve retrieves his hand, using it to prop his chin up with his elbow supported on the table instead.

 

“Or do you really despise me that much that you’d much rather be done with me as soon as possible?”

 

Gieve quirks up a brow, somewhat curious but mostly amused.

 

“Are you certain you want to find out the answer to that question? Because I’m terrible at lying,” Isfan says with a straight face.

 

A short moment of absolute silence, and then Gieve bursts into unrestrained laughter, head thrown back, and the smoky sound reverberates within the small, intimate room.

 

Isfan blinks, and then he’s turning his head to the side to hide a much smaller smile of his own.

 

“I know I favour you for a reason,” Gieve says after his laughter finally subsides, turquoise irises bright and warm. There’s a hint of sincerity in his tone, but Isfan is too preoccupied with the way the dancer is leaning closer across the table, tendrils of red-violet hair falling haphazardly into his eyes as he cradles Isfan’s jaw with a gentle hand.

 

He nods towards the untouched drink on the table, eyes sparkling with mischief again. “It’s rude to not partake what’s been offered to you, you know.”

 

There’s challenge in that statement, as well as a suggestive insinuation.

 

“I don’t drink while on duty,” Isfan only says, and he scoots back for good measure so that all Gieve can do is retrieve his hand for the second time.

 

“Because of what happened last time?”

 

Dangerous, Isfan reminds himself, the wall of defense thickening once more around him.

 

He remembers the sweet, fiery taste of alcohol on their tongues, and carnal urges that Isfan let lose that night. He hates that Gieve has that sort of power over him – the power to make him lose control, lose himself in the heat of the moment. He hates it even more that he had been unable to put a stop to it, whatever it had been, however brief and meaningless it was supposed to be.    

 

Dealing with Gieve is like playing with fire – a roaring, uncontrollable forest fire that only knows to consume and conquer.

 

Gieve doesn’t wait for Isfan’s reply to continue.

 

“That’s a pity. To have Parizad personally serving you drinks – and it’s one of those expensive bottles she received from the Serica merchants as well?” Gieve whistles lowly after he takes an appreciative whiff from the glass, and a crooked grin pulls one corner of his mouth upward, “She really must like you a lot.”

 

“I think the fact that I’m a messenger from His Majesty Arslan might have something to do with that,” Isfan says with one raised brow, the ceramic seal tile dangling on one of his fingers and the rubies twinkle dully in the dwindling candlelight. “But that’s enough small talk. Can we return to the business at hand?”

 

“Impatient,” Gieve scolds with a grin, a hand tucking a loose strand of red hair behind his ear, “but as you wish.”

 

“Lord Narsus has heard various rumors regarding the whereabouts of Prince Hilmes; the information we received appears to be conflicting, however. Some say he’s working for the Turkish king while others say he’s residing in Misr. Surely, one man cannot be in two places at the same time.”

 

Isfan’s expression is perplexed, his thin brows drawn into a deep frown as he recalls once again all the information Narsus had imparted to him a few days ago before his departure for Gilan.

 

“Well, well,” Gieve’s grin, if it’s even possible, grows wider still, like a predator ready to devour its prey, his sea-green eyes toiling with excitement. He has been known to love dramatic antics after all. “Here’s a little something I’ve heard from a Sindhuran textiles merchant who’s been dealing business with the Turkic royal court for over a decade; he’s a simple-minded man who either just couldn’t resist my charm or that of the influence of alcohol, but what he’d told me might be of interest to you…”

 

“How reliable is that information?”

 

“Enough for me to demand an advance payment.” He picks up Isfan’s glass with those elegant fingers and takes a small sip of the wine. Isfan’s eyes follow the line of the man’s neck as he swallows, and he feels his own throat runs dry.

 

The tongue that darts out to lick the residue on his lower lip is nothing short of coy. The dancer is clearly enjoying this all too much.

 

“If it’s any consolation to you, that man has been a loyal patron of mine for the past three years and has been unknowingly feeding me some incredibly useful information during this whole time.”

 

“This is not how we usually deal,” Isfan starts after a short moment of contemplation, guarded, golden eyes glancing towards the dancer who is still smiling at him, waiting for the answer he knows he’ll receive.

 

“No, it isn’t,” Gieve agrees.

 

Isfan thinks he may very well regret this, but he doesn’t want to risk storming out of the brothel out of personal spite only to find out that this is the exact information they’ll need to avoid a major national conflict between the old and new Parsian royal lineages.

 

“Fine,” Isfan mumbles, “name your price, then.”

 

“A dance.”

 

“Excuse me?” His head snaps up at Gieve’s words, and he starts to sputter, his face growing warm despite his best effort, “B-but I…”

 

“Oh,” Gieve chuckles behind his palm after realizing why Isfan is reacting so strangely, “Oh, no no. I mean I’m the one who’ll be dancing. You, most honored knight and guest, just need to get comfortable and enjoy my performance.”

 

Isfan seems to have calmed down significantly after the clarification, but his suspicion of the dancer’s true intent doesn’t diminish. “Isn’t this usually the other way around? The previous owner told me your private receptions cost a fortune, but what you’re suggesting––”

 

“––is me essentially giving a free performance, yes.”

 

Gieve gets to his feet, and makes his way around to the other side of the low table.

 

Isfan doesn’t move, merely tilts his head up to maintain their eye contact.  

 

The red-haired dancer reaches down with a steady hand, fearless yet sensual as the bracelets around his wrist rattle delicately, palm pressing against Isfan’s jaw and thumb tracing the shape of the knight’s lower lip as Gieve sinks to his knees, close enough for them to whisper in secret and still be able to clearly hear each other. He leans towards the knight, who’s stunned frozen at their proximity, and murmurs by his ear, “What a lucky day for you, Lord Isfan.”

 

Isfan is hesitant to agree on that assessment of his day, but he’d promised Narsus to get that information, and at the end of the day, this is only a mission – part of the exchanging of compensation and information between the court’s representative and a reliable informant. 

 

It isn’t that the knight has never been to a brothel before; after all, he, like most men, has physical urges that need to be satiated once in awhile. However, Isfan is not entirely certain what to expect when it comes to an establishment that boasts of quality erotic dance performances, especially one that’s specifically tailored to the taste of male audiences.

 

There’s no music. There’s no one here to watch or judge.

 

In the near-silence of the night, the halo of the warm glow within the chamber prickles their skin. Gieve leads Isfan to the pile of lush, embroidered cushions in a darkened corner and signifies him to take a seat with a husky promise of, “I’ll make sure this information and this dance will be worth your time spent with me.”

 

“We’ll see about that, won’t we?” Isfan turns his head slightly in reply, topaz irises glimmering at the sight presented to him, and he bites his lip at how close they are, how, if he summons enough will to reach out, he can easily caress the smooth, pale skin of his neck, along his exposed collarbone, and follow the opening of his tunic until…

 

“My eyes are up here, Lord Isfan,” Gieve reminds him with a light chuckle, a finger tilting his chin up until they’re eye-to-eye. “But I am flattered that you’re enjoying the view already.”

 

“I thought you were going to dance? You talk a lot for someone whose profession is to entertain people with his body.”

 

The statement sounds somewhat brash and uncomely when it’s spoken in Isfan’s indifferent tone, but Gieve has been in this trade for over ten years now – has basically been brought up in the rowdy and hostile environment as his mother was also a stage performer of sorts – so no insults or cruel comments can faze him anymore.

 

“You’ve got an unforgiving tongue – do you know that?”

 

“And you just never stop flapping yours.”

 

“I can think of several ways with which my tongue can be nicely occupied from talking,” Gieve leans back a little with another mischievous grin, sea-green eyes promising a lot more than just a dance if Isfan is willing to ask. He doesn’t give Isfan a chance to respond before he gathers himself up in a swirl of white and violet.

 

He moves to stand facing before the knight, about three paces away.

 

There’s no music, no prying eyes, just their quiet breathing and heartbeats that sound louder than they have any right to be.

 

With his eyes fluttered close in concentration, Gieve raises his arms in graceful arcs, and the silver bangles slide down his arms in fluid, synchronized tinkles: the opening melody to tonight’s dance.

 

The flame starts from the tips of his fingers and the elegant lines of his wrists, rotating in circular motions as he brings down his arms; with just the minimal rhythm set off by his bracelets, Gieve opens his eyes again, his gaze intensely fixed on Isfan, who looks as if he’s been mesmerized by the dancer’s every little gesture.

 

When their eyes meet, Gieve merely gives him a tiny smile – it can almost be considered bashful, the way he lowers his lashes in a half-nod, teeth sinking into the pink flesh of his lower lip, and dimples surfacing on his warmth-flushed cheeks as he turns around, his body continuing to move and undulate in sync with the bracelets’ harmonious melody.

 

‘It’s all part of the act,’ Isfan reminds himself, when he notices that his heartbeat has quickened. ‘It’s nothing. This means nothing.’

 

The performance has started off innocent enough, though even Isfan has to admit that the skills and techniques involved are more advanced and intricate than he has expected from someone who makes a living performing in a brothel. He must have spent hours training and practicing each day for years to get to where he is today – the fame and reputation, the adoration and respect he has gained in the trade community.

 

Gieve takes another step closer with a twirl of violet silk and flashes of silver starlight, and the knight watches, with ravenous, golden eyes, as the dancer unknots the sash around his waist, the motion slow and deliberate and meant to be appreciated as part of unveiling the enigma. The fabric flutters to his feet like a sheet of snow, and when Isfan drags his gaze back up, he can clearly make out the milky complexion and definitions of the dancer’s abdominal muscles that have been hidden before.

 

The dancer takes the last step that bridges the distance between them, and his scent – a pleasing combination of floral notes and something inexplicably sweet, like clove spice and citron – invades Isfan’s senses when he kneels before him, head lowered in a submissive pose, the front of his tunic opened wide enough for Isfan to see the subtle shift of muscles and the warm glow and smoky shadow of his skin casted by the candlelight.  

 

He lays his hands on Isfan’s shoulders, barely any pressure there, and shifts his body impossibly closer, leaning in to the side of the knight’s neck but doesn’t touch him there.

 

His mere presence, hot wisps of breath against his flushed skin and pulse point, is enough to make Isfan’s defense crumbles like a castle constructed out of sand and brittle branches, enough to make him tremble in trepidation and exhilaration. He’s afraid of what he craves from Gieve – touches that might mean something more than the dancer intended, kisses that make him breathless, make him want more of this, of him.

 

With his mind intoxicated without a drop of alcohol in his system, Isfan is solely getting drunk on Gieve’s butterfly caresses and teasing dance moves – one hand sliding down the bare skin of his own body, his tunic having slipped off one of his shoulders to reveal more skin begging to be kissed. Before he realizes what he’s doing, Isfan has his arms wrapped around Gieve’s lithe waist and pulls him over so that the dancer is straddling his lap.

 

He arches his brows, slightly impressed by Isfan’s sudden burst of daring.

 

“Finally got your attention, hmm?”

 

Comfortably perched on the taller man’s lap, Gieve has the best view of the knight’s facial expressions without any hindrances, and he plans to take advantage of this.   

 

“You’ve always had my attention,” Isfan admits in a softer tone, head turned slightly to the side, embarrassed. The cold sharpness in his topaz eyes has alleviated, and his cheeks are tinted a lovely shade of pink from having revealed this much.

 

“I’m honored,” Gieve says, and his voice is so uncharacteristically genuine – none of his dramatic flair or flirtatious tenor – that it has taken Isfan by surprise as he turns to face him again.

 

He doesn’t get to dwell on its implication for too long, however, because the next second sees Gieve’s trademark smirk back on his elfin features as he tucks a stray lock of red hair behind his ear with care, the silver and emerald chain dangling on his earlobe momentarily catches Isfan’s attention before the knight notices that Gieve is starting to shrug off his tunic. The discarded piece of clothing pools at their feet, forgotten at once.

 

“What are you…” Isfan swallows, golden gaze, now roused with black, glares accusingly at the dancer, who doesn’t look bothered at all by the other man’s seemingly hostile expression. The heat on his face betrays him, but Gieve is not about to tell him that. It’s much more fun for him to observe, to see how far he’s allowed to push and how much Isfan can take before he snaps.

 

It’s all part of the fun. Part of his compensation.

 

As much as Isfan tries to control himself, the vast expanse of pale skin is just too tempting, and with Gieve practically sitting on top of him, it’s hard not to allow himself to look.

 

“It’s part of the performance,” Gieve assures him, and then he’s taking Isfan’s hand into his smaller one, and places it at the small of his back – a wordless invitation for him to touch, to venture and explore.

 

Isfan scratches his blunt nails experimentally along the length of his spine – partly because he wants to see what it’ll do to the pretty dancer who seems entirely too composed for what they’re engaging in and partly because he can’t force his hand to move away now that he’s had first taste of what Gieve’s bare skin feels like under his calloused fingertips – and watches with fascination as the red-head flutters his eyes close and his back arches in response, head thrown back and throat exposed. His hips – whether it’s by instinctual reaction or purely intentional, Isfan can hardly tell in this hazy heat – grinds down against Isfan, and both men stutter a gasped breath, the pleasure mounting steadily yet left infuriatingly unsatisfied at this very moment.

 

“I-is this still part of the performance?” Isfan murmurs, his hands wandering from Gieve’s back to his front, and he traces abstract patterns there, thumbs following the lines of the dancer’s hipbones for a few moments and then moving upward to his abdomen and his chest, where a fetching shade of soft red, like roses in dawn’s light, is spreading from his neck and down, and he hears the man exhales shakily above him, his fingers winding into the knight’s hair and pulling him closer.

 

“It’s whatever you want it to be,” Gieve replies, lowering his head to rest his cheek atop Isfan’s head and allowing the knight’s hands to roam.

 

He’s long foregone the dancing portion of this transaction, though he still occasionally grinds against Isfan’s obvious arousal just to feel him shudder helplessly against his embrace, and Gieve is merely indulging himself in the knight’s hesitant touches, giving a soft sigh of pleasure when his warm palms leave paths of heat and trails of newborn stars.

 

As a long-time erotic dancer, Gieve has touched and been touched by many – some experiences more agreeable than others – but when it comes to the golden-eyed knight, Gieve just wants to sink his teeth into him and enjoy him at leisure – none of that harried sexual acts or frenzied, crackling kisses that end too soon and too common for this industry.

 

Isfan embodies a sort of naïve and honest-to-a fault attitude seldom seen in Gieve’s line of work, so when they first met, Gieve’s teasing had been done purely out of curiosity to see how the stern man who rarely smiled and had a frown permanently etched on his sharp features would react. The knight’s responses had been more than entertaining – all curt but clever reproaches and the conflicting flush on his tanned skin.

 

Gieve wants more; he wants to see the icy cage around Isfan that keeps him at a distance to dissolve, and he’ll do almost anything to achieve that feat. He thinks seeing the knight crack a genuine smile once in awhile might be worth all the trouble he’s going to find himself in.

 

Gieve wants more than just this business transaction, the only tangible link between them.

 

He’s uncertain when he’s begun to feel this way about the court representative from Ecbatana, yet each time they meet, a surge of want – not just the yearning for physical contact, but the desire to get to know him better outside of their business – flares from the depth of his chest, a fire of unknown intensity that threatens to swallow him whole.

 

When Gieve glances down, he realizes that the knight has been staring at him through his disheveled forelocks, and there’s not a trace of the usual cold indifference on his face, just a curious look, as if wondering what Gieve’s thinking that might cause him to become uncharacteristically quiet.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

That expression is so painfully honest and open that it triggers a series of tremoring sparks within Gieve’s heart that sets everything in motion.

 

“May I kiss you?” he asks, and his hands are resting lightly on Isfan’s chest, waiting.

 

“Is the request still part of the deal?”

 

Almost at once, Gieve understands the underlying implication of that question: if Gieve answers in the affirmative, the chances of Isfan allowing him to advance is much higher because carrying through his mission is part of his duty as a military officer, but if Gieve hands the decision to Isfan with both hands, the knight might choose to back off into safety, well away from the edge of the cliff, which, Gieve thinks, might not be such a terrible idea.

 

But Gieve tends to be impulsive when it comes to things he’s taken an interest in, and Isfan fascinates and attracts him like moth to a flame; he wants to see Isfan takes that one step forward – towards him, and perhaps towards something more concrete in the future.

 

He’s thinking too far ahead again; the dancer exhales, and replies with a small smile, sea-green gaze steady on the knight’s golden one, “Like I said: it’s whatever you want it to be.”

 

“Then…” Isfan swallows and winds his hand to the back of Gieve’s neck, fingers brushing the curls at the nape, and he guides him forward. The unspoken answer is clear.

 

Gieve willingly goes with him, his heart skittering like the chaotic beats of a drum, his eyes closed on instinct as their lips touch for the first time that night.

 

It’s gentle and much too brief, warm and strangely comforting, and unlike everything they’ve done so far. Gieve’s chest tightens, his fingers gathering the fabric of Isfan’s tunic in a firm grip even as they part, both of them dazed and slightly breathless just from one innocent kiss. Now that he’s experienced this, Gieve doesn’t want to let this – him – go.

 

“More?” Gieve ventures in a whisper, hot breaths fanning across Isfan’s dry, parted lips, and his turquoise irises glimmer with the request, burning bright with plead as if his life depends upon Isfan’s reply.

 

The knight nods once, half-lidded eyes blazing black and gold, and he leans in to meet Gieve, hand gently cradling the dancer’s flushing cheek, with a kiss much more fervent and urgent than their first, hot tongues delving in to taste, teeth gnashing at lips and it’s almost too painful yet the raw, stinging sensation is as addictive and intoxicating as Serican wines.

 

Desperate, hungry whines get swallowed into nothing but muffled sounds as their hands roam freely and pull at loose clothing, and Isfan lowers his head to nip at the flawless skin of Gieve’s neck, sprinkling open-mouthed kisses along the graceful line of his bare shoulder and relishing Gieve’s choked, eager noises and frantic rutting against his thigh.

 

The friction between their bodies is palpable, the flame licking his skin unbearable, and Gieve wants to get closer – be buried within him – wants more because this is simply not enough.

 

“G-god, Isfan I want––“

 

“What is it? What do you want?” Isfan breathes out. Hearing the usually happy-go-lucky dancer who never seems to take anything or anyone seriously using such a wrecked, broken tone to call out his name – just his name without the stifling title – Isfan would be lying if he says it doesn’t turn him on quite a bit. “Tell me, Gieve.”

 

“I want,” Gieve reels back a little, a strand of red hair falling into his darkened eyes as he stares unabashedly at Isfan; he bites his lower lip, wet and swollen from their kisses, in a moment of unexpected timidity. He pauses before he pushes on in a trail of rushed words and sentiment, “I-I want you to touch me until I release.”

 

He wants much, much more than that, too, but Gieve can’t think through the fog of pleasure blinding the logical side of his mind.

 

“That’s not part of the deal,” Isfan says, and he’s using that infuriatingly calm and matter-of-fact voice Gieve hates the most.

 

“I thought we’re beyond that,” Gieve groans, the hint of frustration doesn’t go unnoticed.   

 

“I never knew you to be such an impatient man, Gieve,” Isfan teases, and if Gieve weren’t so wind up from their activities, he may be able to appreciate that frivolous side of Isfan more, but at this very moment, Gieve has priorities and getting off from the touch of his favourite patron is at the top of his list.

 

“There are many things you don’t know about me,” Gieve counters bitingly, his pout obvious.

 

“Don’t look too disappointed,” Isfan plants a playful peck on the corner of the dancer’s lips, and as he continues to kiss a path down his jawline, he leans in closer and says in a softer tone, “there are other ways to bring you to climax without me directly touching you.”

 

Gieve blinks, his mind suddenly wiped blank from the implication of Isfan’s statement.

 

“You are just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

 

With renewed vigor and a wicked grin, Gieve dives back in for a deep, searing kiss – a small revenge for Isfan’s teasing – and Isfan takes what he gives him in stride and responds with plenty of enthusiasm of his own.

 

The knight dips his fingers under the hem of Gieve’s trousers, but doesn’t proceed to remove them, as engrossed and distracted by each other’s exploratory touches and fiery kisses as they are. Instead, he just heaves the lithe dancer up so that he’s sitting directly on his lap with his legs loosely wrapped around Isfan’s waist.

 

The slight height difference makes it easier for Gieve to take control, and with a hungry growl rumbling at the back of his throat, he attacks Isfan with another fervent round of filthy, wet kisses, devouring and savoring the taste of him like he simply can’t get enough.

 

With each passionate kiss they share and with each eager moan that passes through Gieve’s lips, Isfan becomes a little bolder. He reaches his hands behind and stretch his palms across the firm, supple muscles of Gieve’s ass, pulling him tight and flush against his front.

 

“Eager, are we?” Gieve kisses him on the cheek, his grin wide and playful, and Isfan is stunned into momentary silence once more by the beauty and charm that this man possesses – it’s enough to engulf him like the towering waves of the sea in a summer storm.

 

“Is it really that obvious?” Isfan doesn’t seem too bothered by Gieve’s observation.

 

“You’re easy to read,” Gieve tells him, the sharp edges of his grin reduces into something softer, kinder. “I like that about you.”

 

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself, Gieve.”

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it, milord.” His laugh is a flower reflected in the mirror, his kisses the moon echoed in the water.

 

Everything that comes after is heated blur of primeval reactions as both men let their instinct and desire take over their bodies: When they move their hips in rugged unison, Gieve’s arms thrown haphazardly over Isfan’s broad shoulders to anchor himself and face buried in the crook of the knight’s neck, their straining arousals rub against each other through the thin layers of their trousers, and it’s sticky and hot and messy, but neither of them wishes to stop.

 

It’s too late for them to stop now.

 

Isfan gets there first, with Gieve’s dexterous fingers in between them and touching him through the fabric, the added friction and the dancer’s murmurs of his name – like a mesmerizing song that submerges Isfan within the eye of a lightning storm, too bright and too hot and too much – makes him come hard.

 

Isfan can sense the dancer’s climax when he shudders within his embrace, fingers tightly clawing onto his shoulders, his breathing coming out in harsh, quick bursts, moistening the skin of Isfan’s neck branded with the silent, chaotic utter of his name. When Gieve falls apart and loses all that perfect and glistening composure, he’s a lot quieter and more reserved than Isfan has imagined, and as Gieve comes down from his high, his limbs lax and pliant and draped around the knight, Isfan has to nudge him with his forehead, and the dancer responds with a contented hum.

 

They wrap each other within their arms, soaking in the near-silence of the room and night that smells of summer flowers, briny sea, and warm skin. It’s less awkward than either Isfan or Gieve has anticipated, and they are most glad of it.

 

“Remember, this is only the advance payment,” Gieve reminds him with a hoarse voice as he finally pulls himself away and gets up from the knight’s lap, a sly grin spreading on his spit-shine lips and sea-green eyes glimmering with unbridled want despite the sweet ache in his legs.

 

“And I shall pay you the rest as soon as you have given me the information I need,” Isfan says in return.

 

“I can hardly wait.”

 

-

 

Dawn’s light slips through the window, steady and golden, just as their time together is nearing its end.

 

Isfan picks up his discarded clothes from the floor and starts to put them on. His tanned skin bears the marks of Gieve’s presence – long, red lines along his back where the dancer had scratched him when Isfan was inside of him, and purple bruises like blossoms blooming all over his chest and inner thighs when Gieve wanted to tease the other man until he broke down and begged.

 

After Gieve had told the knight what he knew – a solemn discussion that had lasted about two hours, which also involved Isfan asking more detailed questions that Gieve seemed to know the answers to – the two men returned to their unfinished business.

 

This is a transaction; that’s all. Isfan pulls on one of his boots with a little too much force at the thought.

 

Sprawling behind his sitting figure and still naked with only a thin blanket covering his lower body and the few pieces of jewelry he’s still donning, Gieve draws himself up on his elbows, a hand pushing through his messy claret hair as the bangles on his wrist chime faintly in the soft light of early morning. From this angle, the dancer can sense the tension in Isfan’s frame, and gently, without a word, he winds his arms around the knight’s waist and lays his cheek against Isfan’s back.

 

For once, Gieve doesn’t say anything.

 

Three breaths later, Isfan finally speaks though he refuses to turn around to face the dancer, and he places one hand over Gieve’s.

 

“Why won’t you take the gold?” Isfan wants to know, the question has been burning at the back of his mind ever since their first dealing. “With the amount you were offered for the information you provided to the court for the last few years, surely you can leave this line of work and pursue something else?”

 

“Why?” Gieve shoots back with a sharp smirk, a dangerous spark lighting up his turquoise irises as he lets go of Isfan and scoots back into his nest of blanket. “Because this kind of ‘work’ is dishonorable?”

 

Isfan turns sharply to face him. “That’s not what I’m say––“

 

“Let me assure you, if I had wanted to leave, I would have done so a long time ago.”

 

“Then what is keeping you here?”

 

“Why do you wish to know?” Gieve pours himself a goblet of water, every gesture elegant and immaculate like a choreographed dance, and takes a leisurely sip, turquoise eyes never stop observing the knight, and as the cool water soothes the dryness of his throat, he continues, his grin growing wider like he’s just had a brilliant and wicked thought, “Could it be that you’ve come to care about me, Lord Isfan?”

 

“I––“Isfan shifts his gaze for just a slight moment before he sets his golden eyes on Gieve once more with a determined set to his mouth. “And what if I have? Is that so hard to believe?”

 

“You should take care of what you say,” Gieve’s lips twitch but there’s no humor in his eyes, “or I might take up on your offer, and you will not be able to get rid of me that easily.”

 

“You’re quite a romantic, aren’t you?” Isfan sees the flash of warning on the dancer’s face before it flees, and he quickly puts on his tunic, not allowing himself to read into it too much.

 

Gieve continues to watch the knight tie his sash and put his hair back into its usual neat ponytail and says, “Do I not seem like one? I’ll have you know that I can serenade anyone with beautiful ballads and recite love poetry until they fall to my feet with awe and devotion.”

 

“I do not doubt that at all.”

 

The man who had lost himself within Gieve’s embrace, tear apart by the dancer’s talented mouth and hands, and broken down by the roiling waves of rampant passion, has been meticulously pieced back together again: a loyal knight of Pars with the cold, topaz eyes and firm curve to his mouth, whose only reason for coming to such a place is to gather information in order to better defend the country.

 

What a noble notion that is, Gieve thinks to himself, a little wry smile grazing his lips.

 

‘This is all for the best,’ he thinks.

 

And then there’s nothing more to be said.

 

Isfan feels foolish for bringing up the topic in the first place when he knows it’s futile; it only results in a bitter atmosphere that tastes foul with regret on his tongue and probably revulsion on Gieve’s.

 

The knight considers what would be an appropriate way to say farewell. He thinks about a handshake – a gesture so formal it’s almost cruel – or perhaps a kiss on the forehead – a sentimental little thing that Gieve would surely hate.

 

“I suppose this is goodbye for now.”

 

Isfan settles for a pragmatic smile and words that convey too little and sink too heavily in his mouth.

 

“It’s always a great time doing business with you, Lord Isfan,” Gieve raises his goblet towards the knight’s general direction, “I’m certain we’ll meet again sooner than you think.”

 

When Isfan closes the door behind him, the tell-tale trilling of Gieve’s bangles is the last thing he hears.


End file.
